


The After After-Party

by orphan_account



Category: NASCAR RPF
Genre: Crack, Multi, busch!cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows you don't trust Matt Kenseth as your bartender at post-season events...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The After After-Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deifire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/gifts).



> Written for the nascarland 2011 Secret Santa exchange. The Inappropriate!Tony/everyone in the garage jumped out at me.
> 
> I may have taken a little inspiration from last year's RxD Secret Santa gift to me ;)

Sunlight streams in the open curtains, and I groan as I roll over away from the window... and find myself staring into the face of Kasey Kahne.

_What the hell?_ Why is he in my bed? And why is there so much fucking sunlight? I have blackout curtains for this exact reason. I look around the room, and I realize this isn’t my bed at all. No, really... _what the hell?_

My eyes travel around the room again, and land on the Sprint Cup trophy that’s sitting on the table, a can of Schlitz stuck inside it. _Oh yeah._ The banquet. The party. _The after-party._

A soft snore comes from the warm body beside me, and I take a moment to really look at him. Yeah, this has happened before, but he’s usually not still here in the morning. I take in the long lashes resting against his cheeks, that creamy, perfect skin, and a curly lock of hair that falls over onto his forehead. I reach my hand out, brush the lock of hair back from his face, and sigh softly. It’s really not fair that he’s so pretty.

From behind me I hear a snort. “Are you done mooning over him yet? Fucking pretty boy...”

_No._ No, no, no. There is no way that Kurt Busch is in this bed, too. I turn my head just a bit, and sure enough, he is.

“Surprise,” he says sarcastically, and gives me a little wave. “Forget all about me because there’s something prettier in your bed?”

Well... And I almost tell him that, but hell, his year’s been bad enough without me rubbing that in his face, too. “I... uh...”

There’s a laugh from somewhere on the other side of Kurt, and then a smartass voice says “Are you going to use your words, Stewart, or are we supposed to read your mind?”

_Kyle?!_ They’re both here? What the fuck happened last night?

“What are you doing here?” I ask incredulously, as an arm wraps around my waist. I look down at the hand now resting on my stomach, and so does Kurt, who smirks as I sigh. Kasey always was a cuddler.

“You invited us. It was after you grabbed Helton’s ass, but before you kissed Firesuit Bitch,” Kyle says, his voice a little muffled, and I finally realize he’s on the floor beside the bed.

Kurt snorts. “He means DeLana. Happy was decidedly UnHappy after that.”

Well, yeah. Of course. If I were married, I wouldn’t be very happy about some other guy kissing my wife in front of a bunch of people, either. I start to say that, but Kyle interrupts from his spot on the floor.

“Pretty sure he was jealous you weren’t making out with him!”

I roll my eyes, and then my brain finally catches up to the first thing he said.

“I grabbed Helton’s ass?!”

Both the Brothers Busch snicker at that. _Great._ I’m going to be the first three-time champion to ever find himself suspended for the season before it even starts.

“Oh, you were in rare form last night. Women, men, Christmas trees...”

“Christmas trees? What the hell did I do with a Christmas tree?” I reach up to scratch my head, and there’s decidedly less hair there than there was yesterday. Again... what the hell happened last night?

“You may have humped a Christmas tree!” Kyle says, and Kurt nods.

“You humped it with it standing... managed to fuck it into submission, and then you climbed on top of it and kept going. You should just be glad that part happened here in the suite. It... wasn’t pretty,” Kurt laughs, and reaches for his phone. He scrolls through the photos, then turns the phone around and shoves it in my face. “See? Not pretty at all.”

I blink a few times, not really sure I can believe my own eyes. Sure enough, there I am, straddling a Christmas tree that’s obviously been knocked to the ground. Well, that certainly explains all the scratches on my arms.

Just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, Kurt hits the play button on his phone, and I’m moving on the little screen. No, not just moving; humping the tree just like he said. And then I hear myself yelling “That’s right, you Christmasy bitch, you’re gonna take it and like it! I’m gonna jingle your bells tonight!”

Face meets palm as the snickers beside me turn to outright hysterical laughter.

“Delete that!” I growl, and lunge for the phone. Kurt’s apparently not nearly as hungover as I am, and he quickly tosses the phone to Kyle.

“Shrub! You give me that phone right now! Or you delete that video!”

Kyle just continues laughing so hard that he starts to turn blue.

“Too late, Fatboy. Kurt posted it to YouTube last night!”

No. No, this is NOT happening.

But it is happening. I pinch myself hard enough to draw blood, and I don’t wake up. It’s not a nightmare.

There’s a loud knock at the door, followed by two loud groans beside me, and Kasey’s squeezing his arm around me tighter, murmuring “No, Mommy, it’s a Saturday. Don’t wanna get up.” I manage to pry his arm loose and make my way, very slowly, to the door. I have to hold onto furniture as I make my way across the suite, because either the room is spinning, or I am. Either way, walking is a lot more difficult than I recall it being yesterday. The knocking continues, grows louder the closer I get to the door, and I wince at the sound, or maybe it’s the feeling I’m wincing at, because it feels like whoever this asshole is, they’re attacking my skull with a jackhammer.

I open the door, scowl firmly in place, and I’m just about to give this person a piece of what’s left of my mind... until I realize I’m staring straight into a naked chest. A naked, musclebound, male chest. I look down and see black tuxedo pants. Now why in the hell did someone send a Chippendale dancer to my room at ungodly’o’clock in the morning?

“I, uh, came back for my... oh, there they are!” And what exactly did Carl Edwards leave in my room that he’d be so concerned about that he’d come for right now? I turn and catch him pulling a pair of bright red briefs off of a lampshade. Wait... _what?_ I reach up to scratch my head again, and again I’m cognizant of the fact that there’s less hair there than I recall being there yesterday. Carl catches me scratching, and chuckles.

“It’ll grow back, eventually. With the way you grow a beard, it’ll probably all be back in a month and a half.”

What’s he talking about, _it’ll grow back?_ And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY HAIR?!” I rub my hands over my head, and there’s just barely anything there. It’s not an optical illusion. I mean, it’s Vegas; it’s the dessert. That sort of thing could happen, right? But no, it’s real. I have that same buzz cut look Carl gets every summer. My head officially looks like a bowling ball with black fuzz on top. “YOU did this!” I say, pointing a finger at him, and he just shakes his head.

“Nope. I can’t say I didn’t give you the idea to do it, but you did that yourself. Pretty sure it’s all still on the bathroom floor.” He smirks, just a little bit, and if I wasn’t worried that he could completely kick my ass, I’d be kicking his right now.

Instead, I just give him a bewildered look.

“But... why? Why am I bald, Carl?”

“You’re not bald. Your hair’s just... very short. You got something stuck in it, and we all tried to convince you it would be easier to just wash it, but you were having none of it. You grabbed the clippers and went to, um, clipping. DeLana was kind enough to even it up for you, since it kinda looked like you’d taken a weed-eater to your head. And then... well, then you felt the need to thank her by ramming your tongue down her throat.” He laughs nervously, and I feel my stomach start to roll. “You just thought Kyle managed to piss Harvick off... I’ve never seen him turn that red before!”

“Are you sure he didn’t do this to my head after I kissed De?”

“Nope. He did grab your ass after that, though. Pretty sure I saw a bruise later in the night.” He smirks as my face contorts into a question mark.

“A bruise? Why... why would you be seeing a bruise from where Kevin grabbed my ass?”

Carl smirks even more as he twirls the red briefs around on his finger.

_Oh._ OH.

“Probably because I was busy creating a few of my own,” he says, still smirking, as he shoves the briefs in his pocket. As he walks past me, he grabs my hip, and yeah, I’m hellaciously tender there. I grimace and cry out a bit, and he just laughs and tosses me a small plastic tube. “Keep it for next time,” he says, as he lets himself out of the room.

I look down at the package in my hand. Gun Oil lube. Me and Carl? _Really?_

I don’t even realize I’ve asked it out loud until Kasey pads into the living room area, nodding. “It was a good show,” he says, then makes a beeline for an open box of Cap’n Crunch sitting on the coffee table, sticks his hand in, and stuffs a handful of cereal in his mouth.

I start to sit down in one of the overstuffed chairs across from the couch, and Kasey points at an envelope addressed to _T. Stewart._

“Somebody left that for you,” he mumbles around his mouthful of cereal.

I pick it up, open it, and it’s on official NASCAR stationery. I expect it to be some sort of _congratulations, blah blah blah_ letter... instead I see:

_Tony,_

_No, you cannot have a mustache ride._

_If you ever ask again, it’s double-secret probation for you._

_And if you ever grab my ass in a room full of people again..._

  
_Mike Helton_

  
Damn you, Matt Kenseth. Damn you, Crown Royal. Someday, I will learn my lesson-- do not let Kenseth talk me into trying new combinations of Crownified drinks. At least he can’t pull this trick three years in a row, because I don’t think he can get me drunk on Bluray players and edgy clothing.

I hope not, at least.


End file.
